


DRAFT: What Needs

by MusicalLuna



Series: Superdads [5]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers Family, Burns, Crying Steve Rogers, Cuts, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, No Sex, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Parent Tony Stark, Protective!Avengers, Steve Rogers Feels, TBQH This Fic Exists Because I Wanted Steve to Cry, Unethical Experimentation, Unethical Medicine, WIP, Work In Progress, Wounded!Team-Leader!Steve, draft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9691250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalLuna/pseuds/MusicalLuna
Summary: “Dad, can you—can you come home? I’m fine,” Peter insists, though Tony can clearly hear he’s not. “I just—I think dad needs you. He came back this afternoon and he's—he’s moving like he’s hurt.”Then Peter hesitates, and, in a near-whisper, says, “I think—I think I heard him crying in the bathroom just now, Dad. Please? Please, can you come home? You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a big deal.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> here, enjoy some flux-verse (au?) fic
> 
> **Warning:** [SPOILERS] unethical medical procedures akin to torture

Tony throws his tie across the room when he gets back to the hotel and it falls over the lampshade, where it will likely stay for the remainder of the trip.  
  
Between the heavy curtains, he can see the neon of Hong Kong glowing in the foggy night air.  
  
He’s heading into the bathroom when his tablet trills, Peter’s picture flashing onto the screen. He smiles and back tracks, flopping onto the bed and tapping it open. “Hey, spider monkey, it’s early! To what do I owe the pleasure?”  
  
There’s a slight hesitation then: “Dad, can you—can you come home?”  
  
Tony’s smile falls. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“It’s Dad,” Peter says and ice floods Tony’s veins.  
  
“What happened? JARVIS didn’t notify me—”  
  
“No, no, Dad, there was no alert. It’s not like that.”  
  
Tony relaxes a fraction, but only just. Peter’s still asking him to come home, which is—unprecedented. “Sorry. Putting a hold on the freaking out. I’m listening. What’s going on?”  
  
Peter takes a quavering breath and blows it out again. “He came back from this—I don’t know, he called it ’S.H.I.E.L.D. business’, he’s been gone since the day after you left, and he's—”  
  
Tony twists around, folding one leg underneath him, his heart pounding a little too hard because Steve hasn’t mentioned any S.H.I.E.L.D. business to him. He hasn’t said much of anything when he calls, Tony realizes, just keeps Tony talking. “He’s been _gone?”_  
  
“Yeah. I’ve been staying with Uncle Clint. Dad…Dad didn’t tell you?”  
  
_What the fuck._

It doesn’t _matter,_ he trusts Clint with their kid, and Steve’s a free man, he doesn’t have to report to Tony, except something he’s doing is scaring their kid and that’s not okay.  
  
“No, but I’m not his boss and you’re fifteen and Clint knows I’ll destroy his bow if he doesn’t take care of you, so that’s not the problem. I’m more worried about what your dad’s doing that inspired you to make this call.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Peter insists, though Tony can clearly hear he’s not. He knows what Peter looks like when he sounds this wound up, with his shoulders up by his ears, so tense it hurts to look at him. “I just—I think he needs you. He came back this afternoon and he's—he’s moving like he’s hurt.” Then Peter hesitates, and, in a near-whisper, says, “I think—I think I heard him crying in the bathroom just now, Dad. Please? Please, can you come home? You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a big deal, I know you’ve been working hard on the merger, but I don’t know— I don’t know—”  
  
_Crying._  
  
If Tony hadn’t already started packing, that would have been the clincher.  
  
He doesn’t need this company anyway. Wang’s driving up the price every meeting, trying to see how much he can wring out of them. There will be other, better deals. “All right,” he says, throwing the tie from the lamp in his bag, “Peter, I want you to go to Thor’s, ask if you can bunk over. Clint’s if you have to. Let me worry about your dad. I’ll be home by noon tomorrow, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Peter says, miserable. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Hey, no, don’t be. This thing was going sour anyway and it sounds like Steve’s being a first-class idiot.”  
  
Peter lets out a huff of laughter. “Okay,” he repeats. “Will you—will you call me later? After you talk to him?”  
  
“If JARVIS says you’re still up,” Tony agrees. Then he stills and says, “Hey. Everything’s going to be fine, all right?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, though he doesn’t sound convinced. “Yeah, I know, Dad. I love you. Now hang up and call Dad.”

Tony snorts. “You’re getting bossy in your old age. I love you, too, buddy.”

As soon as the call disconnects, Tony says, “JARVIS, message Pepper. Tell her we’re leaving. Then find Steve and patch me through. Don’t warn him or this’ll be over before it starts.”  
  
“As you wish, sir.”

Pepper calls before JARVIS has located Steve. Tony sighs. “Yeah, answer. Let’s get this over with.”

“What the hell do you mean we’re leaving?” Pepper demands without preamble. “We’ve been working on this merger for months, Tony, just because it’s not going exactly as we hoped doesn’t mean we can—”

“I just got a call from Peter,” Tony says over her. “He begged me to come home. Steve was gone for a week and a half and now he’s back, moving like he’s injured and crying in the bathroom.”

Pepper’s rant falters and there’s a brief pause as she absorbs everything he’s said, then she says tentatively, “…crying?”

Tony nods tightly, throwing wads of socks from the bureau into his suitcase. “That’s what Peter says.”

Pepper’s quiet and Tony lets her be, giving her a chance to think it all through. Finally, she says: “I’ll send Wang a written apology and retract our offer. You’re packing now?”

“Almost done,” Tony confirms. “Gonna call Steve as soon as we’re done and try to figure out what the hell’s going on over there. Call you if it’s a false alarm.”

“I’ll make the flight arrangements.”

Tony’s gratitude is fierce enough to be painful.

“I’ve located Captain Rogers,” JARVIS says when Pepper hangs up.

“Put me through,” Tony orders. He sits by the window, outside which all but the closest buildings have vanished into the fog. He shivers at the chill coming from the glass and definitely doesn’t hold his breath, except, yeah; yeah, he totally does.  
  
Ten seconds later, the connection goes live.  
  
The first thing he hears is a sharp, wet inhalation, followed by a small, muffled sound he’d know anywhere. He’s heard Steve make that exact noise after hundreds of injuries. He hates it, hates that he has no idea what’s causing it.  
  
“God, what the hell happened, Steve?” he says, wishing like hell he wasn’t as far away from New York as it is possible to get.  
  
Steve gasps, startled, and then chokes on another high, tight sound.  
  
“Shit,” Tony breathes, darting around the bed to lean over the pad like he’s going to be able to do something, ha, right, as if. Teleportation, that’s what he needs to be working on. “Sorry, sorry, fuck, Steve, I’m sorry.”  
  
He can hear Steve breathing through his mouth, trying not to sniffle, but he’s failing. Finally, he gives up. “T-Tony?” he says and his breathing hitches, thick and wet in his throat. “'id J-JARVIS…?”

Tony pinches his eyes closed, his fingers clenching around the comforter on the bed trying to ease the deep ache in his chest, hearing Steve like this as a lump forms in his own throat. “No. Peter.”

“F-fuck,” Steve says. “He heard.”

“Yep,” Tony says, making his tone light because if he doesn’t, Steve won’t be the only one crying. “You’re scaring the shit out of him. He knows how you move when you’re hurt too you know, you moron. What the fuck happened? He asked me to come home.”

“Are y-you?” Steve asks and he _must_ feel like hell, because Tony can hear just how much he wants it.

“Hell yes I am,” Tony shoots back at him. “My kid is scared and my husband with obscene pain-tolerance is _apparently_ badly hurt enough that he’s been reduced to crying.” Tony’s voice cracks at the end, the reality of that really hitting home as he says it. “Fuck, Steve. What _happened?_ ” His tone is pleading and he doesn’t even care.

Steve’s breaths are coming in hitching pants as he tries desperately to keep himself under control. “H-had my physical,” he says at last and Tony narrows his eyes, digs a hand into his hair.

“Okay,” he says, waiting for the other shoe.

He hears Steve swallow, a soft thud as he tips his head back against the wall. “The doc—the doc asked me about the serum work-up again.”

“Oh—” Tony’s stomach lurches and he shakes his head. “Steve—tell me you didn't—”

Steve sniffles again and chokes out, “I-it could make a difference, i-if something happens to P-Peter.”

Tony drops onto the bed, his knees suddenly weak. He’s _seen_ the proposals, the shit they wanted to do to Steve in the name of science, to gather information on the serum. “Y—” Tony breathes out sharply a couple of times and then bends forward; shit, he feels lightheaded. He feels _sick._

“If I’d done it before, m-maybe we could have done more for him when he was bitten, Tony. I couldn't— I had to. If there’s even a chance—”

“He’s not your _clone_ , Steve!” Tony bursts, his head snapping up. “That’s not how it works, the shit that gave him his powers is totally different and plucking you apart isn’t going to—” He’s _shaking_ and _shit,_ shouting at Steve isn’t going to make everything okay. It’s not his fault, he doesn’t know how it all works, it’s those sons of bitches at S.H.I.E.L.D., taking advantage, fucking _manipulating_ him, using their _son_ as goddamn leverage _._

It takes him a long while to tamp down his fury.

“You really think it won’t do any good?” Steve asks, voice ragged around the edges. His consonants are muted by the congestion.

“No. I don’t know, maybe,” Tony says, rubbing his hand over his forehead and sighing. “Stranger things have happened.” They’re quiet for a moment and Tony wonders if he should ask, if he really wants to know.

He finally decides he has to.

“Tell me what they’ve done. What’s got you hurting so bad? Was it the pain tolerance tests? Because I swear to God, if they haven’t learned enough from what happens in the field—”

“It’s just the sutures,” Steve starts and Tony shakes his head.

“No. No, don’t bullshit me, Steve. You barely cry when they’re fusing compound fractures together and wiring ribs back into place. I’ve read the whole goddamn laundry list of tests and other crap they wanted to put you through. _What have they done?_ ”

Steve breathes out very slowly and then, in a flat, quiet voice, “Forty biopsies with the largest sample sizes they could get safely. Exploratory surgery. F-four days of testing the impact of s-sleep deprivation on healing.” Steve huffs and his voice is muffled when he says, “That was when I realized they were after more than what might help Peter. And I agreed to a-all of it.” He laughs but there’s zero mirth in it and Tony can tell that he’s still crying. The quiet, relentless kind.

Tony scrubs his hands over his face, staring at the carpet. “What else, Steve?”

Steve doesn’t answer immediately. “What else what? That’s all.”

“Goddammit, Steve, _what else._ You sound godawful and _Peter_ figured out something’s going on with you. I’ve seen you hide six broken ribs from him. You’re a wreck—which, by the way, did any of those assclowns think of that? Down two Avengers, do they _want_ the city to get destroyed? If something happens—”

Steve cracks finally and starts sniffling, totally losing control of his breathing. That’s when Tony knows for sure he’s right.

God, he _hates_ that he’s right.

He feels his own throat tighten to the point of pain and he presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.

“Th-they’ve b-been—c-cutting m-m-me. B-breaking f-fingers.”

Jesus, and Tony had thought it couldn’t get any worse. “What?” he croaks.

“S-six inch cut between m-my ribs, one f-f-finger for ev-v-very d-day th-they k-k-k-keep m-me aw-wake. I can—I can't—”

Tony’s eyes burn. He’s never heard Steve like this. Never.

“I’m s-so ti-tired, T-T-Tony,” he breathes and he sounds hollow, gutted. “E-everyth-thing h-hurts.”

“ _Fuck their tests!_ ” Tony says, desperate to get Steve even a moment’s relief. “We already know lack of sleep fucks up your recovery. Go to sleep, god, no wonder you’re a wreck!”

An agonized noise pulls from Steve’s throat. “I c- _can’t._ They g-gave me a c-cuff s-so they c-could keep m-m-monitoring m-me. If I s-start to f-fall asleep i-it g-g-gives m-me a hit of adr-dr-drenaline. I c-couldn’t go h-home without it.” He lapses into quiet, heaving breaths and Tony has to choke back the urge to hurl.

“Okay, okay, all right,” he says and digs his fingernails into his palms deep enough to draw blood. “What kind of cuff, Steve? Metal?”

“Y-yeah.”

Tony gets to his feet, pacing as he starts making plans. “Okay. Can I tell the others? You’re gonna need help to get it off.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, barely above a whisper.

“Okay, just—I’m going to let you go now,” he says, leaning over the pad because it makes him feel a little closer, even if that makes no sense at _all,_ but he can barely stomach the thought of hanging up. “Those assholes aren’t getting their hands on you again. I’m going to send Bruce. Okay?”

Steve makes a small noise of understanding and Tony grits his teeth. He closes the call.

“Fuck,” he breathes and puts his hands down on the mattress, letting his head drop and closing his eyes, just taking a second to pull himself together. When he’s done so, at least as effectively as he’s going to manage right now, he spins around, starts pacing again. “J?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are all the Avengers in the Tower?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Lock it down. No one gets in or out. If they ask what’s going on tell them it’s, ah—”

“Protocol Zed, sir?”  
  
“Yes, that. Perfect.”

Protocol Z is Tony’s domestic version of _Avengers Assemble._ It’s kind of an unofficial thing, but it should get the idea across without freaking anybody out prematurely. And it will have the bonus side effect of gathering them all where he’s going to need them most—with Steve.

There’s a light tap on the door and Tony looks up; he relaxes when he sees it’s Pepper. She draws her suitcase in behind her and glances around at the lousy job he’s done packing—throwing clothes in the direction of his suitcase is more like it, and not with Hawkeye-level accuracy either. “I take it we’re still a go then,” she says, bringing her eyes back around to him. Tony’s not sure what she sees in his face, but it makes her expression sharpen with concern. She doesn’t ask, just moves to the bed and starts packing his things for real, brisk and efficient. It takes him a second to regroup his thoughts, throat tight with emotion.

“JARVIS?”

“I have initiated Protocol Zed, sir,” he reports. “I have begun notifying the Avengers.”

“Put me through to Bruce.”

Bruce accepts and opens a video stream and when he sees his face Tony realizes abruptly just how badly he misses home. He’s getting sappy in his old age.

Bruce’s forehead is wrinkled with a frown and he leans forward, says, “Tony? What’s going on? JARVIS is saying you initiated Protocol Zed…? That’s actually a thing?”

Tony huffs, mouth twitching in a smile, and drops down on the bed, scooping up the pad. “It’s an unofficial thing. Hi. Hey. It's—it’s good to see you.”

“Likewise,” Bruce says, though his frown is deepening as he scans Tony’s face. “You’re still in Hong Kong, aren’t you? Is everything all right?”

Tony grimaces and says, “Not…not exactly. Not at all, not even a little, who am I kidding; FUBAR doesn’t even begin to… Shit. It's—it’s bad, Bruce.”

For a second Bruce looks worried, then he breathes in and his face smooths out, calm settling over him like a veil as he bolsters himself. “We’ll fix whatever’s wrong, Tony,” he says. “Tell me what happened.”

Tony has to fight back the knee-jerk urge to resort to joking because this…this is going to drag along all of Bruce’s exposed nerves. Probably set fire to them.

He rubs at the bridge of his nose. “You’re not going to like it. Like, really, _really,_ not going to like it.” Tony grimaces and then says, “Ah, you might actually want to go down to Hulk’s room before I— Yeah. That’d probably be a good idea.”

There’s a brief, pregnant pause and Tony looks up, meets Bruce’s gaze. “Give me five minutes,” Bruce says quietly and the video flickers out.

Tony presses his hands down over his face in a vee and closes his eyes for a second. _Come on, get it together, Stark. You can’t lose it now._

A small hand settles on his shoulder and he looks up, pastes on a half-smile. “Hey, Pep, all set?”

“Ready when you are,” she says and reaches out. Tony slides his hand into hers and she squeezes his fingers, straightening his collar with the other hand. It’s something she’s done a million times, like, literally, and its comforting, eases the weight in his chest a little.

She hasn’t been his assistant for years, but that’s never stopped her from keeping his life from sliding into the gutter—which, thank God, because left alone he’d have landed there in about two seconds flat—and generally being there for him when he needs her. He likes the kid she found to replace her, he does a good job with the appointments and the harassing him into making his meetings, etc., etc., especially since now it’s up to Steve to make sure he does the less assistant-related stuff, like eating and sleeping and occasionally emerging into daylight, but he’s not Pepper. Nobody’s ever going to be what Pepper is to him because for the longest time she was all he had. She was there when he dragged his sorry carcass through hell and started rebuilding.

They’ve added to their little family and shifted things around, but Pepper’s still his North Star.

He rolls to his feet and pats her elbow.

“Plane’s waiting?”

“It is,” she says with a nod. “We’ve got clearance to take off as soon as we can get on board.”

“Fantastic. My hero. Really.”

"You flatter me,” she says, and they head for the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since all ya’ll were so excited about this, i played patchwork princess and i wound up with more than i expected
> 
> sadly, this is the last of what i have written so the next update will be slower in coming
> 
> thank you all so so much for your messages, they made my week <3
> 
>  **warnings:** for unethical medical practices, mention of torture

On their way down, Tony tells Pepper what he knows.

She’s gratifyingly horror-struck by the few details he has, and by the time they reach the lobby she’s pulling her suitcase along hooked in the crook of her arm so she can flick her fingers across the surface of her tablet, already on the attack. It gives Tony a perverse sense of pleasure.

The valet is loading their bags into the car when Bruce calls back.

“Hey, Bruce, gimme a sec, we’re getting in the car now,” he says, pulling open the door and waiting as Pepper slides in, his shoulders hunched in an effort to keep the damp chill off his neck. The fog’s gotten pretty heavy; he hopes it won’t interfere with take off.

He ducks into the car and swings the tablet around, propping it up on his knees. Bruce is waiting with the corner of his thumb between his teeth, set against the [bright pink ](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.colormatters.com%2Fcolor-and-the-body%2Fdrunk-tank-pink&t=NWIyODY1MWZiN2ExNzllZDBmOGExYjEwZTFiNTk5ZTRkZjI1NjY1OSx6ajF5UGRubA%3D%3D&b=t%3Ac_BJa7l9GPpI7Lipa8FXAw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fmusicalluna.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F100806825705%2Fwhat-needs-part-ii&m=1)of the walls in Hulk’s specially-made room.

“You all set?” Tony asks.

Bruce nods and draws his hand away from his mouth, settles his arm over the other at his waist in a kind of self-hug. “Tell me.”

Tony stares out the window for a minute, chewing on his lip. “Steve agreed to let S.H.I.E.L.D. do the serum work-up.”

At first, Bruce doesn’t move. Then a faint expression of confusion creeps over his face. “Okay… So they did the fluid draws and a couple of biopsies—” Bruce freezes. “Did they find something, Tony?”

“No,” Tony says and scrubs his hand over his face, “not that work up, Bruce. The full work up. The—vivisection.”

The array of emotions that go across Bruce’s face then are breathtaking. “He agreed to it?” he says, stunned, incredulous. “Why—”

“Peter,” Tony says and Bruce makes a choked, spluttering sound. Tony can see the anger creeping forward, the horror, as it sinks in what they’re talking about.

“Did they threaten—”

He starts to go green, breaths huffing out of his nose like a bull, his skin rippling and bulging and Tony raises his voice, “No. They didn’t threaten him, Bruce, they just—used him—the spider-man thing—to manipulate Steve into thinking it was necessary, which is not really better, I know, but— Come on, Bruce, I need you to keep it together! Nobody threatened Peter.”

Bulging and green around the edges, it’s fairly terrifying when Bruce glares at him, even through the tablet screen. But he shudders and takes a deep breath and the change starts to ease back.

Tony waits until he’s mostly human again and then raises his eyebrows. “You have gotten really good at that.”

Bruce breathes out through gritted teeth and huffs in a slightly-too-gravelly voice, “Been practicing for—what, three decades?”

“Well, it’s paying off, buddy,” Tony says.

Bruce gives him a dirty look, then covers his eyes with his hands and takes several more long, careful breaths.

“How long?” he says at last.

“Ten days.”

Bruce takes a juddering breath. “Fuck.”

Tony doesn’t say anything because that sums it up pretty neatly.

“You want me to go check on him,” Bruce surmises. “What am I looking at?”

Tony blows out a breath. “Ah, well, let’s see. Forty biopsies–”

“Jesus,” Bruce murmurs.

“–and Steve said something about them taking the largest sample size they could, presumably without compromising his ability to, you know, live, so God only knows what the hell that means. Exploratory surgery, which is downright terrifying, and that’s when it gets ugly.”

Bruce gives a small, mirthless laugh.

“Whoever was running the tests gave up all pretenses of doing research to help Peter four days ago. I guess they want to figure out how much his healing ability degrades with sleep deprivation because he’s been awake for four days. They cut him. Broke fingers.” Tony swallows hard and shakes his head, scrubbing his palms over his eyes. He sucks in a breath and then just gets it out: “He’s crying. Like, uncontrollably, Bruce. It’s bad. I’ve never…”

“Okay,” Bruce says, his face pinched. “I understand.”

Tony nods wearily. "Pep and I are on the way to the airport. If we get a good tailwind we should make it back before noon tomorrow. I have some more calls to make, but I want to hear—”

“I’ll keep you informed, Tony,” Bruce says. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

Tony nods and then Bruce is gone. A small piece of the knot in his gut unwinds. Bruce will take care of Steve.

He waits until they’ve gotten on board the jet and made it into the air before he calls to talk to Clint and update Peter.

His eyes flick to the time in the corner as the program trills. It’s just after ten AM in New York.

Clint’s face appears on the screen, the corner of his mouth twitching in a tight smile. “Protocol Z, huh?” he says. “That’s cute.”

“How’s Peter?” Tony asks.

“Freaked out,” Clint says and his eyes slide to the side, presumably tracking Peter’s movements off-screen. “He said you told him to come down here, but he didn’t say why. He’s got that look he gets when one of you guys is messed up though. You look all right, so what’s going on with Steve?” Clint turns his gaze back to the computer, studying Tony.

“He agreed to do the serum work up.”

For a second, Clint goes absolutely motionless. Then his eyebrows start to dig in and he grits, “He did what.”

“Somebody told him they could learn things that might help Peter. Look, it doesn’t matter right now. He did it, it’s done, he’s not going back. I need you to look after Peter until I get back tomorrow—”

Clint’s eyebrows go up. “You’re coming back?”

Tony meets his gaze. “I’m on my way now. We should make it before noon.”

“Shit, they must have done a number on him. All right, yeah, I’ll keep an eye on him. You keeping us on lockdown until you get back?”

“You better believe it,” Tony says. “Like I said, he’s not going back, not of his own volition, and not because anybody else is making him.”

Very faintly he hears Peter say, “Hey, is that Dad?”

Clint glances away, his face softening slightly. “Yeah, kiddo, it’s your dad. You wanna talk to him?”

“Yeah, give it here! Dad? Dad, how is he? Hey, can you hear me?”

Tony rolls his eyes, his mouth pulling into an involuntary smile of affection as Clint goes sailing off the screen. God, Peter’s just like Steve, can’t wait a single second to get the information he wants when someone he cares about is on the line. “Yeah, I’m here, cool it, would you? And stop waving the tablet around, you’re making me sick.”

“Sorry, sorry.” It wobbles around for another minute, then stabilizes and Tony’s finally got a clear, steady picture of him, still wearing his pajamas and sporting an impressive case of bedhead.

“Your uncle let you in looking like that?” Tony says dubiously.

Peter makes an extremely put-upon face and replies, “I had to beg him for sanctuary and enlist Aunt Darcy’s help, but yeah. He wanted to put a bag over my head, but Aunt Darcy said that’d probably break the Anything Happens to Him and You Die Clause.”

Tony runs a finger over his goatee in mock-thoughtfulness. “She’s probably not wrong.”

“Ha ha, yeah, okay, you’re hilarious, I have bedhead, you’ve never seen that before ever, okay, can we get to the part where you tell me what the hell’s going on with Dad?”

“Language,” Tony warns, because contrary to popular belief, he does try to be a good dad when he’s not trying first to get under Steve’s skin.

The reprimand earns him a half-eyeroll, “Sorry, heck; gosh, you’re a responsible parent. Dad. Quit stalling.”

Tony wrinkles his nose and drums his fingers on the chair arm, knuckles of the other hand brushing over his lips. He hates it when Peter catches him doing shit like that. The kid’s way too smart, and way too perceptive for his own good.

He hears Peter swallow and realizes he’s been quiet too long. “Is he okay?” Peter says in a small voice.

They swore when they decided to have Peter that they were never going to treat him with kiddie gloves. If they were going to raise a kid in the Tower—in a giant interstellar target for every creep in existence—they weren’t going to try and sugar-coat their lives. They’d gotten a lot of flak for choosing to bring a kid into that world, but people signed up for the military, to be cops and firemen everyday and no one seemed to think they shouldn’t have kids. No one ever tried to stop his dad from having kids despite the fact that his filthy richness made Tony a prime target and, goddammit, they wanted him, they were going to have him, come hell or high-horsed reporter. And he and Steve had agreed they would never lie to Peter.

So Tony says quietly, “No, Pete, he’s about as far away from okay as it gets right now.”

He watches as Peter struggles to swallow and, after a couple of mis-starts, says, “What kind of bad are we talking?”

“Well,” Tony says, propping his chin in his hand, “he’s not dying as far as I know, so there’s that.”

Peter exhales in a rush and slumps back into the couch, the heels of his hands pressed to his forehead. “He’s not? Oh, awesome. That's—thank God.”

Tony’s mouth pulls into a tiny, bittersweet curve. Peter handles this kind of news like a pro, and that’s fantastic, Tony’s eternally grateful that their honesty policy hasn’t irreparably fucked him up yet, but it’s not something he wants to brag about either. Oh, sure, he’s used to this kind of thing.

He lets Peter take his time getting his head wrapped around what he’s said, murmuring gratefully when Pepper curls his fingers around a steaming coffee.

“Okay,” Peter says at last, letting his hands flop down into his lap. “He’s not dying. But he is hurt?”

Tony nods. “Not the usual kind either. You remember a couple years ago, July, I think, when we were all MIA for ‘bout a week?”

Peter frowns and then looks up, catching Tony’s eye. “You mean that time the guy—Gravlax or Gravitas or something—the one who tortured him. They wouldn’t let me in to the recovery room for four days.”

On the back of his tongue, Tony tastes a bitter metallic tang and he nods shortly, gulps down some of his coffee. “Yeah,” he mutters. “The one who tortured him.”

It doesn’t quite wash away the taste of bile at the back of his throat; the reason Peter hadn’t been allowed into the recovery room was because Gravitas had spent that week branding Steve trying to get him to break. Sixty percent of his body covered in gruesome, blistering burns.

“This is like that?” Peter says, then starts in with the rapid-fire questions: “Somebody’s been torturing him? How did he get away? He looked hurt, but I didn’t think—”

“All right, slow down. Yes and no.”

“What do you mean 'yes and no’? If it’s like that time then—”

“Peter,” Tony cuts in, voice sharp, commanding. “Stop. Breathe.”

“Shit,” Peter says, and covers his face with his hands. “Okay, sorry. I'm— Go ahead.”

Tony watches him for another moment, grimacing at the jittery fear he can see creeping into Peter’s frame. He looks pale, but it’s hard to tell with video. Finally, he says, “Yes and no, because your dad agreed to do the tests S.H.I.E.L.D.’s been hounding him about for years. You know how your dad is Steve and Captain America? And there’s a subtle, but distinct difference?”

Peter nods, silent.

“A big part of that is headspace. Cap is prepared when things go wrong and knows torture is on the daily menu. But Steve…”

“Steve’s in a different headspace, I get it. So he wasn’t prepared when they what? What happened to him, Dad?”

Tony stares into his coffee. “They experimented on him. Large sample biopsies, exploratory surgery, some kind of sleep deprivation experiment.”

“Surgery? But Dad…Dad can’t be anesthetized for long periods of time.”

“Then you see the problem here.”

Tony gets a brief look at the white, stricken expression on Peter’s face before he vanishes off the bottom of the screen in a blur. The picture bouncing around, flashing between light and dark before finally stopping as the tablet hits the table and then Tony’s staring at an image of the ceiling.

He sits forward sharply. “Peter?!”

“Shit!” he hears, “Shit, shit!” followed by Peter’s hands scrambling to gather up the tablet.

Tony covers his face with one hand breathing out a sigh of relief. Not passed out then, well, that’s something. When he looks back up, Peter’s re-settling the tablet, swiping at his nose with the back of his hand, his eyes over-bright. Tony feels like an ass. He’ll never get used to this.

Peter’s voice is thick and quiet when he says, “What the fuck is wrong with them? How could they do that knowing that he can't—that he feels—”

One of his arms comes up to cover his face for a second as he sucks in a hitching breath.

Something tears inside Tony. “I don’t know, I don’t get it either. It wasn’t supposed to be torture. I’m _sure_ Fury didn’t know this was going on, because he knew the limits, where we drew the line. Something went…wrong, I guess. He went in there expecting some tests, maybe one or two of them might hurt, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He went in expecting some poking and prodding and got cut open instead.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. is supposed to look out for you, not—”

Peter goes quiet abruptly, his head turning and Tony frowns. He’s leaning forward when Peter breathes, “Oh no.”

Then Tony hears the quiet, tinny sound of a familiar roar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know if there’s anything you’re particularly anticipating!


	3. Chapter 3

“That’s Uncle Bruce!” Peter yells, darting to his feet and Clint steps between him and the elevator, holding his hand out, Dad shouting, “Peter, don’t you dare! Sit your ass back down, now. Barton! I swear to God, if he gets out of that apartment—”

“JARVIS will shut down the elevator,” Clint replies. “Relax.”

Peter can barely hear them, his heart’s pounding so hard in his ears. Dad sent Bruce to go take care of Dad and now Bruce is the Hulk and he’d never hurt Steve, but if he’s angry enough to have changed in the Tower…

“Peter,” Clint says, wary, like he’s talking to a rabid animal, “buddy, I’m gonna go down there and take care of this, and I’m sure everything is fine, but I need you to promise me you’re gonna stay here. Can you do that?”

“I will lock that floor down, Peter, don’t think I won’t! You stay away from your uncle when he’s angry! Especially this time! Do you understand me? _Peter!_ ”

“Okay, Dad! I heard you!” Peter snaps. “I’m not an idiot!”

There’s another bellowing roar from upstairs and Peter swallows hard, flinching slightly when somebody takes his hand. It’s Aunt Darcy. “Come on, hon,” she says gently, curling an arm around his shoulders even though she can barely reach. “Come have some tea with me and let Clint go calm Bruce down.”

Peter looks at Clint as he calls in a voice he can’t keep steady, “Dad?”

“Yeah, Shortstack?”

“You’re gonna be home soon right?”

“As soon as humanly possible,” he promises. Peter nods at Clint. He nods in return and heads for the elevator.

~

Steve can barely breathe.

The bathroom is a disaster. Steve’s lucky Bruce had the presence of mind to turn away as he changed because Hulk had brought his fists down and totally shattered the marble floor halfway through the transformation. Then he’d destroyed the sink—now gushing water between Steve and the door—and the mirror, which lays in a thousand pieces scattered over everything, before barreling through the doorway.

The shards tinkle softly as Steve stretches his legs back out, breathing out in short, sharp pants, through gritted teeth, the pain from the cuts between his ribs flaring with every breath. He can hear Hulk smashing his way through the rest of the apartment, bellowing, “Who hurt Cap?!” Steve has to stop him, calm him down and get him changed back.

He has to keep him from doing something Bruce will regret.

Steve reaches up for the towel bar, grunting as the movement sets off sparks of agony in his side. He takes a shaking breath and then pulls himself up in one swift motion that makes his vision white out.

By the grace of God, he’s still upright clinging to the towel bar when it fades back in.

“Where are you?” Hulk howls and Steve swallows, takes in a gulping breath and forces himself away from the wall. His steps are unsteady, his left leg throbbing with every step and he has to catch himself on the doorway to keep himself upright.

He blinks tears from the corners of his eyes and calls in a wavering voice, “Hulk.”

There’s no reply, just another frustrated roar.

The penthouse has been demolished, furniture flung aside during Hulk’s search, the floors cracked and broken. The air is filled with tiny bits of some kind of stuffing from one of the chairs that’s now embedded in a wall. Hulk stands on the far side of the room, smashing the entertainment center to little more than pulp.

Steve staggers out into the room, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Hulk,” he tries again, grabbing hold of one of the legs of an overturned chair to steady himself. God, the pain is excruciating. “Hulk, please,” he says, but it barely comes out as a whisper; he can’t breathe.

He forces his fingers to let go of the chair and takes one shaky step forward before his legs refuse to hold him anymore. A breathless cry tears free of his throat and he’s falling.

The landing is softer than he expects, but it still sends a jolt of agony ping-ponging through him and for awhile, he’s not aware of anything but the pain.

Eventually though, it begins to recede and he feels something solid moving in and out against his shoulder, his feet cupped in Hulk’s enormous palm. “Hulk,” he breathes, sucking in air with uncooperative lungs, and starts to push himself upright.

“Stay,” Hulk orders him and lays his other hand over Steve’s chest, forcing him back down into the crook of Hulk’s arm. “Cap hurt.”

His heavy brow is still contorted in anger, but there’s worry there, too, a faint brown speckling in his irises. “Hulk will keep Cap safe.”

“Thanks,” Steve manages to get out, patting his arm awkwardly. “That’s…that’s good, Hulk.” Then he screws up his face and grits his teeth and tries desperately to get his breath back.

On the far side of the room, the elevator dings and Hulk’s grip tightens, a growl bubbling up from his chest that makes every one of Steve’s nerves light up with pain. He moves toward the window and gingerly lays Steve down before turning to greet whoever’s coming.

“Hulk, wait,” Steve pleads, reaching after his arm. The pain sucks the strength from his muscles and he never makes it close.

God, he hopes he won’t hurt anyone.

“Hulk?” a voice calls, and Steve’s eyes flutter shut.

Clint, thank God.

“Hulk, hey, buddy, it’s me,” Clint goes on, cautious, but friendly. “What happened?”

Hulk shuffles and growls, frustrated. “Cap hurt. Can’t find who hurt Cap.”

Steve puts a hand over his side, where the pain is stronger than it was before, a red-hot screw driving in between his organs to his spine. When he pulls his hand back, he finds spots of blood on his fingertips. Must have popped some stitches. He screws his eyes closed again and listens as Clint negotiates his way closer.

“You did a good job, Hulk,” he’s saying.

Hulk huffs out a breath, stomps a foot, and Steve can’t stop the high, tight noise of pain he makes as the floor shakes beneath him. Hulk spins back around, moving with surprising delicacy to hover directly over Steve. “Cap okay?” he demands.

Steve nods the best he can, laid out flat on his back as he is, and breathes out, “Yeah, fine, I’m fine.”

“He’s not fine,” Clint says, much closer now, and Steve glances over. Clint’s climbing over the shambles of one of the couches, his expression torn between disapproval and worry. “He needs to be taken care of. Can we have Bruce back, Hulk? Please?”

“Dangerous,” Hulk protests.

“We’ll take care of him,” Clint says. “Bruce will let you back out if there’s even a hint of danger, you know that. Right now what Steve needs is Bruce, okay?”

Hulk rumbles again, displeased, his eyes skimming over the demolished penthouse. Finally, he bares his teeth. “Okay.”

Instantly, the enormous figure of the Hulk begins to shrink down, green leeching out of his skin. He drops down on his ass next to Steve, slumped over his own bent knees.

“I can’t…get over how much he likes you,” Steve manages.

Clint glares at him. “You’re an asshole.” He reaches to squeeze Bruce’s shoulder. “Bruce? You in there?”

Bruce groans weakly, then seems to come awake all at once, his head snapping up. “ _Steve!”_

“Hey, hey, cool it, he’s fine, Doc, or at least you and the Other Guy didn’t do any damage. Breathe.”

Steve feels a little guilty, seeing the way Bruce’s eyes dart over him, assuring himself that he hasn’t. The tightness in his shoulders eases out some when it’s confirmed. “Jesus, Steve,” he breathes, “you _idiot._ ” Anger comes over his face, but this time it doesn’t bring with it the Hulk. “You submitted yourself for _testing?_ ”

Steve closes his eyes. He really should have known better, but… “I thought… I thought it could help.”

After all this, he feels so stupid for submitting, for _agreeing_ to let them do this to him, knowing—at least in part—what they planned.

Bruce mutters a series of extremely black curses and then takes a deep breath, murmurs, “Thank you, Clint.”

Steve’s eyes are tearing when he forces them open them again. God, he’s so tired. “I don’t want to go back,” he manages to whisper. The tears start to build, and Steve covers his face, despite how it pulls at his side, because he’s powerless to stop them. Shame sits at the back of his throat, thick and cloying.

Bruce laughs darkly and then there’s a gentle hand on the top of his head. “Steve, I wouldn’t let you, even if you wanted to.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for suicidal ideation near the end.

Twenty-three minutes.

_Twenty-three_ minutes it’s been since Tony heard the Hulk roar. God, what the hell had he been  _thinking_  sending him to Steve after the near-miss when he’d told him what was going on? Was he out of his goddamned mind?

The jet is perfectly climate-controlled with an air-circulation system that Tony designed himself for maximum freshness and it’s big enough that three men Thor’s size could lie down across it’s width, but right now it’s stuffy and too small. It’s dark outside and sleep time as far as his body’s concerned, so even the soft evening lighting grates.

Tony desperately wants something to do with his hands.

From one of the wide leather armchairs, Pepper’s eyeing him like she has a sedative up her sleeve, ready to stab him if he gets close enough. Tony adjusts the path of his pace to be safe.

The only sounds in the cabin since they settled in have been the muted roar of the engines, Tony’s shoes on the carpet, and Pepper’s fingers, occasionally tapping lightly on her tablet.

Tony hates the quiet, but he doesn’t want to disturb Pepper while she’s on the warpath and Bruce is going to call back any second.

Any second now…

Literally any second.

“Sir, the telephone—” JARVIS barely gets out and Tony yells, “Yeah, put ‘em through, J,” his heart beating hard at the base of his throat. He tears off his jacket and starts folding up his sleeves.

“Hi Tony,” Bruce says.

“Hey,” Tony blurts, his shoulders unwinding, “you’re not green.”

“I was for a little while. Clint talked the Other Guy into letting me back out.”

“Well thank god for Clint then, hm?”

“You can say that again,” Bruce agrees.

“I am amazing, aren’t I?” Clint chimes in and Tony rolls his eyes, but something in his chest softens. Clint gets along with the Hulk like a house on fire gets along with gasoline. It’s a toss up whether Steve or Clint has better luck getting him to do as they like. Either way, he’s grateful Clint’s there.

"You make sure my kid is still upstairs?” Tony asks, and grins at the noise of frustration it earns him.

"Yes, Jesus, I made sure, I’m not an idiot.”

“Good,” he says and then swallows and asks, quieter, “JARVIS, can we get a video feed?”

“I’m sorry, sir, the cameras were damaged during Hulk’s visit.”

Tony curses, but shakes off his disappointment. “How’s Steve?”

“You’re coming home?” Steve’s voice is still thready and hoarse, and a lump builds in Tony’s throat. He sees out of the corner of his eye the way Pepper covers her mouth. He’s not sure she’s ever heard Steve this unraveled.

“I’m on my way back right now.” Tony clenches his fist. "Bruce, he said they put some kind of cuff on him, do you see it?”

There’s a brief pause and then Bruce says, “Yes. Metal, maybe two inches wide and a quarter of an inch thick around his left wrist.”

JARVIS, helpful guy that he is, produces a wire frame visualization over the table in front of Pepper. It’s got more detail than what Bruce had described, so Tony’s betting he scanned the thing itself.

“Thanks, buddy,” he mutters. Then, for everyone to hear: “Okay, we have to get that thing off.”

“I don’t know if we can do that, Tony,” Bruce says, concern audible in his voice. “It’s thick and right against his skin. We might do more damage trying to get it off.“

Tony growls in frustration.

“What is it?” Clint asks. “Did they seriously put Cap on house-arrest?”

“Basically,” Tony says, turning the problem over in his head. “It injects him with adrenaline if he falls asleep. They’re studying how sleep deprivation affects his healing abilities.”

Bruce makes a distressed noise, but Hulk must be cooperating because Clint doesn’t try to talk him down. “We  _know_  how it affects his healing,” Bruce says indignantly. “It impairs it!”

“Yeah, well, apparently they want more info than that,” Tony says and drags his thumbnail through his mustache.

“This is vile,” Bruce mutters. “It’s unconscionable.”

“You don’t have to tell me. That’s why we have to get him out of it. There’s got to be a way. Can you tell what it’s made of?”

“If I had to guess? An adamantium alloy.”

“Seconded,” Clint says and Tony mutters a curse.

“Of course it is.” Tony paces, muttering a command to JARVIS to bring up a list of common adamantium alloys and what can cut or break them. “What about repulsors, lasers?”

“The metal would get superheated,” Bruce says. “Steve would probably be burned.”

On the line, there’s a sudden flurry of noise.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, calm down, Steve, we’re not gonna do that!” Clint exclaims and Tony tenses.

“Don’t,” Steve pleads, “don’t, I can't—” He sounds breathy and panicky and a second later he cries out and Tony  _loathes_  that he’s not there. He wants to hold Steve, wrap his arms around him and tear the fucking throats out of the sons of bitches that did this to him.

“Steve,” Bruce is saying intently, “Steve, we’re not going to hurt you. We won’t burn you.”

“Oh god,” Pepper says quietly.

Steve’s breathing sounds terrible and broken the way it had earlier and it makes Tony ache. “Honey, listen to me. Sweetheart?”

“Tony?” Steve chokes and it’s a plea for mercy, for help, for relief. It kills Tony that he can’t grant any of it.

“Hey. Hey, I know you’re feeling terrible, but you know Clint and Bruce aren’t going to hurt you. You know that, right?”

Steve’s ragged breathing is the only sound for a long moment. “Yeah,” he croaks finally. “Yeah, I know.” Then, miserably: “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t even start,” Clint says sternly.

“I just— I can’t. No more pain, please,” Steve begs. “Please.”

Tony’s shoulders prickle with cold, but his fists, his chest and his face feel so hot they could catch fire. It feels like his mind contracts until there’s nothing left but the spot of incandescent rage between his eyes. He wants to tear into someone with his teeth and hear them  _scream._

He barely hears Bruce say, “Let’s forget about the cuff for a little bit. You’re bleeding, why don’t I take care of that?”

“Think I tore the stitches.” The guilt in the words makes Tony’s chest seize up in a violent tangle. The things he’s going to  _do_  to these people when he finds them—

Steve makes a soft pained noise that he tries to stifle.

“Fucking  _be careful!_ ” Tony snarls.

Bruce ignores him and it makes Tony angrier, until Bruce asks gently, “Are you okay? Do you need me to stop?”

Then, abruptly, the fury washes out of him, fading to a banked fire in the pit of his stomach where he can manage it. Tony crumples into one of the armchairs and puts his head in his hands, listening as Steve breathes, “Just do it.”

God, he’s dying for a drink.

“I’d offer you my hand, but I need my bones intact,” Clint says and Steve laughs before making another terrible noise.

One of Pepper’s small, cool hands slides into his and Tony grips it back when she gives him a gentle squeeze. His grip tightens, probably too much, when Steve bites back a whimper.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Bruce says, low and reassuring, “I’m sorry. That’s it, Steve. I just had to get those edges lined up again. I’m going to smear on a little antibiotic ointment which should take away that sting.”

He keeps talking, a combination of narrating what he’s doing and quiet encouragement.

“We’ll ruin them, Tony,” Pepper murmurs.

“If it’s the last thing I do,” he agrees.

~ * ~

“Okay, I’m done,” Bruce says finally and a rough sob escapes Steve’s control. He doesn’t know if it’s because his system’s overtaxed or if it’s because the damage is really that bad, but even gentle as Bruce was, the patch job had been brutal. The wound is bandaged now though, and to his relief, the ointment does seem to be taking some of the sharpness out of the pain. Embarrassment is a hot current under Steve’s skin, but he couldn’t stop the way he’s…reacting, even if it would guarantee Peter’s safety.

“Steve. Steve, come on. Focus on me.”

Tony.

It’s difficult to concentrate on anything. Steve tries though. “I’m listening.”

“Has that thing dosed you already?”

Before Steve can answer, the call cuts to Darcy yelling, “ _Bambi’s on the loose!”_

There’s a loud  _thunk_  on the window behind them and everyone turns to look.

Peter is crouched on the window, squinting as he peers through the glass, hair plastered to his head from the wind ninety stories up. Steve’s heart stutters, even knowing Peter’s as good as glued to the building. A bulky, pen-sized object in his hand flares green.

“What was that noise?” Tony demands.

“Un-be-fucking-lievable,” Clint mutters.

“Why does he have a laser cutter?” Bruce asks, clearly not expecting an answer. He sounds exasperated and resigned simultaneously.

“Hello,” Tony calls. “What’s going on?”

“Peter got impatient,” Clint answers.

Peter completes a wobbly circle and the green light goes out. He tucks the laser cutter into his back pocket and then pushes in the glass, which lands inside with a  _clunk_  on the carpet.

Steve flinches away from the gust of cold wind that sweeps inside.

“If Darcy’s got even a strand of web on her, you and I are going to have problems, buddy,” Clint says as Peter crawls in through the hole.

Peter rolls his eyes. “I snuck out while she was picking out a movie, I’m not a jerk.”

“What happened to locking down the elevator?” Tony demands.

“Um. He didn’t come from the elevator,” Bruce says.

Tony groans. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

“Probably not,” Clint says cheerfully.

“He…gets this from you,” Steve says. He’s shivering, and it’s torture, but he needs to pull himself together for Peter, so he does his best to ignore the hot throb in his bones.

“Oh, no. No way,” Tony replies. “You don’t get to push this off on me, Mister I-Jump-Out-Of-Airplanes-With-No-Parachute! He does not get his reckless streak from  _me._ ”

“I haven’t done that since 2020,” Steve protests.

“That is literally only because I installed one in your  _suit,_ ” Tony says, but it’s not enough of a distraction anymore when Peter kneels down next to Steve, eyes raking over his body.

“Peter…”

Peter cuts him off. “Shut up, Dad.” The sadness in Peter’s face is almost harder to take than the pain. Then it morphs into anger and Peter snaps, “I can’t believe you did this. After the trouble I got in for what I did, and you go and do the same stupid thing! I can’t  _believe_  it!”

“He’s not wrong,” Tony remarks quietly.

It stings.

“Look,” Bruce says, putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder, “we can all impress upon Steve what an unimaginably terrible idea this was when he’s feeling better. For now, let’s just get him upstairs and make him comfortable while we look into getting this cuff off him.”

Peter pulls the laser cutter out of his back pocket. “This’ll slice through just about anything—”

Steve flinches back, pulling his arm in close to his body. The wave of pain that follows takes his breath away.

Peter freezes, his mouth dropping open in shock.

Steve’s retreat is stalled by Clint, who’s chest he backs into. Clint puts one arm protectively around Steve, covers the cuff with his hand. “Put it away,” he tells Peter, waving the other.

Steve  _hates_ himself for how horrified Peter looks.

Peter quickly shoves the cutter back in his pocket. “Dad…”

“Look, he knows you wouldn’t hurt him, Pete, but he’s not running on logic right now, all right? If you can’t deal, you need to go. He’s gonna be okay, but not for awhile.”

“No,” Peter whispers, “no, I can— I can help.”

He’s already been through so much and this is Steve’s fault, Steve’s putting him through this fresh new hell and he’s a terrible father—it would have been better if he’d died in the plane crash.

Emotion swamps him again and it makes Steve sick that his son has to see him like this.


End file.
